Tag: sex

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Emotional vomit

It’s been too long since my last post. One reason for this is that we were up at the cabin for the long weekend and, as I’ve said before, there’s no internet up there. The other reason is that I’ve been kind of in a funk and didn’t really know what to write, even if I could.

It started over week ago. Belle and I were laying on the bed and she said something that caused me to ask her why I was locked up. Funny that I can’t remember how I came to be asking her that, but it’s been so long that the details are getting kind of fuzzy. In any event, she said it was because I wanted to be denied. Yes, that’s technically true, but in fact, I would have rather heard it was because she wanted me to be locked up. The moment passed, but it kind of gnawed at me for the rest of the evening until later that night when she said, innocently enough, that she didn’t want all this stuff about denial and chastity and yada yada to be all that we ever talked about. She wanted some balance.

A couple of things. One, I was trying to give her balance before she said that. I know that I think about it and want to talk about it more than she does. I think that’s natural. For one, I’m a male and think about sex, like, all the time. For another, being a sexually frustrated and an “orgasmically challenged” male makes me think about it all the fucking time. But really, what most struck me about her comment wasn’t that. It was that this whole new twist to our sex life isn’t really about us as much as it was about me. That is, I feel as though I’m “coming out” to both her and myself regarding this side of my sexuality that’s been bottled up for so long. Yes, it’s also about us and our relationship, but not entirely. So, when she said she wanted balance and not to have to talk to me about all this sex stuff so much, it sounded like she didn’t want to deal with me and everything I was discovering and exploring about myself. No, that’s not what she meant, but it’s what I heard. It played perfectly into my own self-doubts. I lost it.

For a couple of days, I was a total disaster. Every time we talked about it, I cried. Not just a little. I fucking sobbed. Inconsolable. I really don’t know where all that was coming from, but I can still feel it within me. It’s as if all my insecurities fused together to form some kind of emotional shark that never stops swimming just beneath the surface of my psyche. It’s unnerving enough to be unearthing all kinds of new urges and desires, but to do it along side your wife of eleven years who, it turns out, doesn’t have any of the same proclivities is really, really hard. At least it is for me. Nothing she said was meant to reject or marginalize me or my feelings, but it all felt that way. As someone who is typically quite confident and who approaches life accordingly, this has been a difficult set of feelings to come to terms with.

At the end of our conversations, we decided that maybe limiting me to three orgasms this year was way, way too aggressive. Not only would that make it very hard for me to give her the balance she was looking for, it would also place a lot of responsibility on her shoulders in dealing with me and my constantly needy and sexually charged state. To be able to successfully take that on would require that she actually enjoy it and I just don’t think she does. Not enough, anyway. I’ve asked that we target ten more orgasms and see how that goes. If, as we go along, we want to take that number down, I’m all for it, but to jump right to three seems crazy for both of us.

So then, since I was such an emotional wreck, she took me out of the CB-6000. Not only that, she allowed me to have sex with her and I came. The actual orgasm was intense – almost too intense to be pleasurable. I found afterward that I wasn’t very happy about having come. I almost felt a sense of mourning for the period of denial I had achieved and let slip by. As if the coming was just a punctuation on my failure and bizarre fetishes.

ARGH. I hate this post. I hate how it shows how much doubt and insecurity I carry around and how uncertain I am about who I am and how to make that work in my marriage. I have a wonderful, supportive wife and yet I’m still kind of a wreck about all this. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. Not for the first or last time, I wish I could just be fucking normal. Whatever normal is.

I should not even post this. I should delete it. But I feel like I need to emotionally vomit before I can start blogging again and I guess that’s what this post is: my projectile vomiting of all my inner demons upon you, my unknown reader. God, I fucking hate feeling like I’m not even sure I am what I think I am. I’ve been here before. Back when I was struggling with my bisexuality and not thinking you could be such a thing. But that was primarily a private struggle. Now I’m married with kids and a house and a dog and an expensive car and everything. Back in the day, I could withdraw. But not now. Now, I have to deal with it.

Someone please slap me across my face and tell me to snap the fuck out of it.

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Three times

Saturday afternoon, we successfully extracted Belle Fille from the regional airport. She’d spent the better part of a full day coming back from the other side of the world and felt like it. We whisked her home and shortly had her soaking in a hot, sudsy bath.

One of my favorite non-sexual ways to service her is to wash her hair. I don’t do it like they do at the salon. For me, getting her hair clean is secondary to the main event which is to massage her scalp, neck and shoulders and spend as much time as possible just touching her. I sit behind so I have full access, but I have to be careful since I have strong hands and she prefers a firm yet gentle touch. In any event, after I had washed and rinsed and had just finished applying the conditioner, I was cradling her head by holding her along the jawline just under her ears. I was experiencing the greatest urge to reach down and touch her naked body. My fingers remembered the feel of her pussy and I knew I could be there in seconds. There was a time when I would have done just that, but I resisted. I resisted even reaching down and touching her breasts which were bobbing there, half covered in bubbles and water. I just sat there, holding her, my head down, and let all these desires resonate within me. I wanted her badly, and she knew it.

“I used Pink three times while I was gone,” she said quietly.

That got my attention. My head snapped up. “What?”

“Three times,” she repeated. “I used Pink three times.”

I had several opportunities to talk to her over the course of her trip and she never said anything about this. She told me how busy and tired and stressed she was so I assumed she never got around to it. Assumed and not surprised. But no! She did. Three times. The realization of this flooded through me. She, of course, has no restrictions against sexual pleasure of any kind. I suffered while she was gone, unable to sleep or think about anything but her, while she was half a world away with a vibe sticking out of her pussy. The searing inequity of our predicaments burned and delighted me.

—

Saturday night, she was finally next to me in bed. Finally, I could turn over and see her there. My former self, feeling what I was feeling, would have been nothing but hard-charging hands, but this new me just laid there, smiling, and taking the occasional kiss.

Her lips. Oh, god, her lips. Knowing as I did that I was not going to archive orgasm that night – indeed, that I wouldn’t even come out of the CB-6000 – everything else about her was amplified in my mind. The touch of her lips on mine was exquisite. The smell of her breath, the taste of her mouth…all of these details that might normally be missed or minimized on the way towards the inevitability conclusion of the past became my entire reason for being there. Her. All of her. And whatever she wanted or needed.

It’s cliche, of course, but life with orgasm denial is about the journey, not the destination. It’s about driving the slower, scenic route instead of the highway or deciding to cross the country via rail instead of jet plane. Slower travel means greater anticipation for the arrival, but it also means taking the time to absorb the dozens of little details from along the way and letting them – the small pleasures – accumulate and outweigh the one that’s big, simple, and selfish. So I smelled her, felt her, tasted her, and loved every fiber of her – all through my lips.

Eventually, she told me to get naked. I did and embraced her fully, feeling her body against mine – finally! – and pressed into her the hard plastic that had become my manhood. We kissed even more passionately and I felt pressure build in the tube. She started to claw me. Driving her nails into the flesh around my groin, raking them across my back, ribs, and ass. Twisting, pulling, and stretching my nipples. Heavenly. Finally, she took firm hold of my trapped scrotum and began to squeeze it hard while chewing on my neck. The flood of sensory input quickly overloaded me and I actually screamed blissful agony into her pillow. She stopped and I collapsed, panting, glowing, warm with her abuse.

After I collected myself, I said, “Funny, I imagined something sweet and gentle on your first night back.”

“Starting now, it will be,” and she pulled up her top.

Cutting to the chase, I don’t think I’ve ever felt her wetter. Using my hands (and wishing they were my mouth), she started to make sounds like she was coming. They went on and on. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, it ended with a flushed, exhausted crescendo.

Hang it from an aircraft carrier, boys: Mission accomplished.

—

Sunday night and I’m making dinner while she sips her wine and reads Denying Thumper at the bar. She hasn’t spent much time looking at all the thousands of words I wrote for her while she was gone. Too busy, she says. Fine, I think. Not that it would have taken much time, but I guess I’d rather be here with her when she sees first sees them. Nervously, I watch her for reaction. Whenever she give little laugh, I ask, “What?” I walk behind her to see where she is. The waiting is killing me.

When she gets the end of the last entry, she’s crying. I’ve moved her. I come around and hold her and kiss her and thank her for being with me, even though I’m annoyingly complicated and high maintenance. She says I’m her favorite person in the word and she isn’t a big fan of simplicity, anyway.

After dinner, I ask to be released for hygiene purposes. We’re in the bathroom and I’ve got my encased unit exposed, waiting for the key, when she pulls my head down by the hair and just looks into my eyes. She’s waiting for something. Ouch. What is it? Oh! I tell her my phrase, the one that reaffirms my purpose and position. She releases my hair and unlocks the device.

“Tonight, you’re going to rub my back and massage my feet and then I’m going to sleep, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

After the cleaning, I bring the lock back to her. She likes to be the one to make it click. We’re in our room and she’s got me by the hair again. Quicker on the on uptake this time, I say the magic phrase and she locks me up. Without warning, she has me by the balls. Really, she’s got my poor, stretched balls in her grip and she’s pulling HARD.

“How was the shower?”

I’m processing the question and the pain at the same time. I don’t really answer as much as I utter an incoherent sound.

“How. Was. The. Shower?” SQUEEZE.

“GOOD! It was good, thanks,” and she releases me.

“That’s nice,” as she leaves the room.

Finally, later that evening, after the massaging is over and she’s smelling of scented oil and is all rubbery and relaxed, I ask her about my release schedule. Was she serious about three times in 2009? No, not exactly. Three more times is what she meant.

I will get to come three more times this year.

I shudder at the thought. The chastity tube instantly starts to throb painfully. Three times. For real. I will only have three more orgasms all fucking year. I’m turned on and terrified. Can I do this? I’m babbling and fumbling and scared as hell while trying to process that yes, for real, she’s serious. She will come and come and I will…wait.

“I know you’re always trying to be an over-achiever,” she says, not incorrectly. “This’ll give you something to blog about, won’t it?”

Fucking christ. What have I done?

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Fuck me

Here we go again with another one of these posts related to the task my Belle Fille gave me prior to leaving on her trip. I know what you’re asking yourself. Is there anything this guys doesn’t want his wife to do to him!?

—

Belle,

I know, we’ve already talked about this. You’ve already said you didn’t think you could go there. I know. I’ve gone back and forth in my own mind several times as to whether I should even bother to write about this, but you did tell me to write all the things I wanted, and this is one of them. So, here it goes…

I want you to fuck me.

This isn’t just because I like taking it up the ass. In fact, my interest in backdoor action waxes and wanes rather dramatically and I don’t always think it’s all that and a bag of chips. No, this is more about power. In our society, the one who fucks is on top while the one getting fucked is on the bottom. This is true figuratively and literally. A cock equals power and to take one equals submission to that power. No, it’s not PC and I don’t really buy into it on a practical or logical level, but the symbolism of cock power remains deeply ingrained on our psyche.

Now imagine you have a cock. Imagine you’ve got me on my knees in front of you, holding my head in place with a handful of hair, and you’re slapping the sides of my face with it. Now you’re making me suck it. You’ve got both hands full of my hair and you’re pulling and pushing on my head as my lips slide up and down on your shaft. After a few minutes, you pull me up and bend me over the bed. While grabbing my collar for leverage, you line the head of your meat up with my hole and slowly ease your fat dick into my ass until it’s balls-deep. Then you start to slowly fuck me, almost gently at first, but building momentum with each stroke until soon you’re pounding my ass senseless. Eventually, you skip a stroke, shudder, and plunge your tool all the way into me as the orgasm washes over you. You collapse onto my sweaty back, wrap your arms around my chest, and kiss the nape of my neck.

That’s power exchange. That’s domination. And that’s what gets me off.

In the little story above, I didn’t even get to come. It was all about you. I was just a hole. I know, you don’t really have a cock, but there are wonders of modern science out there that are remarkable simulations. They’re even designed to allow a woman to bring herself to orgasm through the act of fucking someone else. It’s a great time to be alive, no?

I’m not sure exactly what about the act turns you off. Maybe it’s that you’d feel stupid strapping on a dildo. Well, I don’t blame you there. But it may not be necessary. Maybe you’re worried about hygiene. I can fix that with just a little warning. Maybe the whole “butt thing” just freaks you out. I know you can play with my ass because you have a couple of times (but, to the best of my recollection, you had had plenty of wine on every occasion).

Maybe, at the end of the day, you just don’t want to fuck me. That’s cool. The marriage will survive. I never want you to do anything you’re not comfortbale with. But, like I said, you told me to write it all down. So here it is.

Yours in every way,
Thumper

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Christmas break

It’s been almost a week since I last wrote here. I guess I’ll call that my Christmas Break.

I was trying to get into a rhythm where I blogged about once a day, so six days off has left me a little rusty as well as contemplative regarding how I’ll blog in the future. On the one hand, I want to blog regularly (like I said, maybe 5 times a week, or thereabouts). On the other hand, I don’t want to get too repetitive. I mean, how many times can I come here and write that Belle denied me another orgasm before you all wander off? Once the bloom is off the orgasm denial flower, how many times can one write about the same non-event? The secret, I think, is spending more time describing the donut and less thinking about the hole. Of course, the longer I’m denied the more I think about holes…and what you can do with them…and how even now I’m getting plump thinking about a freakin’ donut hole. Sheesh. OK, back to it, then.

Christmas Day was notable for two things. First, my Belle Fille had the stomach flu all day. Merry Christmas, sweetie! That sucked (mostly for her). Luckily, she was right as rain the next day. Second, Christmas was the first day I actually forgot my dick was pierced. No pain, no uncomfortableness, in general, no weirdness of any kind. I count it as the first day of the rest of my penis-pierced life. The next day, Friday, Belle felt so good that she wanted me to fuck her. During the healing period, Belle hasn’t been able to enjoy her cock as often as she’d like and, since it was feeling pretty good, she wanted it in her. I used the one non-sheep intestine condom I had. I felt a wince once or twice, but otherwise it was a good experience for both of us. She reports being able to feel the curved barbell a little, but not a lot.

After she came, she told me I could, too, if I wanted to. It’s a testimate to how far orgasm denial has taken me that I actually had to think about it for a second. Three months ago, the option of not coming would have seemed very strange to me. Now, I find myself more than willing to trade the momentary intense pleasure of orgasm for the long burn of denial-driven frustration and basking in the reflected glow of her pleasure. But yeah, I came anyway. Unlike last time, it was good. Really good. Not head-exploding good, but pretty damned good just the same. Afterwards, I pulled off the spent condom, tied it off like a water balloon, and was surprised at the volume of ejaculate it contained. Man, that was a lot of little swimmers.

Yesterday was a good day. Belle and I were really into each other all day. She was giving me long looks and saying nice things and I was loving the attention and looking forward to pawing her that night. Once the kids were down and out, the pawing commenced. I asked to be able to pleasure her with the cock again and, while puting on the condom (we bought more of the latex variety), made the offhand remark that it had been a while since I had to deal with the things.

If you’ve read this blog for a while or spent time reading the old entires, you’ll know that this past summer Belle and I went though a difficult period in our marriage. In short, I cheated on her. We both agree that we should share the blame for allowing our marriage to get to a state where that kind of thing was even possible, but I was the one who cheated and therefore am the one who bears more of the blame. While we’ve come a remarkable way from those days, the pain I caused her occasionally surfaces, as it did with my seemingly innocent remark about using condoms. She immediately deduced (correctly) that I did not use a condom during my affair. I can explain why I chose not to, though it’s not important to this story and will only sound like I’m defending myself.

Belle did not stop me when my comment suddenly opened up the old hurt and anger. I was in her and doing my best to pleasure her when I felt something wasn’t right. I stopped, we talked, I apologized for the millionth time. I think she felt bad that her feelings got in the way of our moment, but I tried to tell her she shouldn’t. How could they not? Her feelings are more than valid and if anyone should feel bad, it should be me. In any event, we were able to get past it and she allowed me to bring her to climax manually.

As she approached her orgasm, I again felt the sympathetic vibrations within me and heard the little whimpering moans coming from my throat. I simultaneously relish and dread the moment of her orgasm. I’m allowed a fractional share of her pleasure but, shortly after, my access to her body comes to an end. Perhaps it was the earlier penetration, but for some reason I found myself hornier than I would have expected just 24 hours after my own release. She told me it would be a while before I was allowed to come, if for no other reason, because she’s leaving the country for a week starting next weekend. I asked if she was going to take the little vibrator, Pink, with her. Yes, she is.

If any part of me was coming off the hormonal edge, the sudden and crystal thought of her pleasuring herself on the other side of the world with Pink while I was hard, horny, and denied here at home had me instantly hard and miserably flooded with desire for her. Even now as I write this, I find myself in a state of excited frustration more suited to three weeks without release, not three days. Exacerbating this is Belle’s promise to let me know each time she comes while she’s gone. Due to the time difference, I imagine I’ll be in an afternoon meeting when I receive a text message from her with the news. She’ll be basking while I’ll be squirming. Not fair. Wonderfully, gloriously, not fair.

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Three nights

Saturday
Following the pathetic squirt, I got my mulligan. Belle strapped me to the bed and used her nails and teeth on me. Only the second time being tied down, I can report still thinking it’s pretty great. At one point, the cock became turgid and she remarked, “God, you really do like this!”

As before, I never got really hard from what she was doing, but I enjoyed most of it. The nails on my ass and digging into my scrotum were awesome, but raking them across my chest not so much. As we’re figuring this out, it’s interesting to me to find that some sensations are good only in certain places.  I regret that she didn’t bring the flogger out, and afterward, so did she. Anyway, she was absolutely vicious with my nipples. So wickedly cruel, in fact, that I had to ask her to stop, which is a first. Damn near twisted the things right off. They stung for 24 hours. Delicious.

She let me jerk off when she was done, but unlike the night before, I could never get there. I really wanted to, but the damned piercing was bugging me again. Not hurting as much as just feeling weird and not right. I can only assume this is part of the healing process and that it won’t feel weird forever. In any event, I did not come. As I went to soak the piercing later I found I had leaked precum, but through the little pierced hole, not the one on the end of the cock. I went to bed frustrated.

Sunday
We spent the afternoon and evening at a family holiday party at Belle’s uncle’s house. She had more than her fair share of wine and, in the car on the drive home with the kids in the back seat, started drawing letters on the top of my hand resting on the shifter.

P, I, N, K

Pink? Oh! Pink, the vibrator. Cool, she wanted me to use Pink on her when we got home. We’ll see if she falls asleep first, I thought.

P, I, N, K, O, R, C…

Pink orc? Huh. Does she want to watch Lord of the Rings while I get her off? I shook my head indicating I wasn’t reading her.

P, I, N, K – yeah, got that – O, R, C…

“Orc?” I said. She shook her head. Our exit was about a mile off at this point, so I told her to just wait.

Turns out, she was trying to tell me she wanted Pink or the cock, she just never got past the C before I gave her a weird look. In bed, she decided on Pink, not the cock (sigh) since, she informed me, tonight it was all about her. Working her nipples with my mouth and left hand, I ran Pink over her clit with my right. Her moaning and gyrating hips encouraged me to fuck her with it and she shortly came to a quiet yet intense climax. With the cock hard and pressed against her, she pulled down her top, pulled up her bottoms, rolled over and went to sleep. I’m not even sure she said thanks.

Monday
Laying in bed. After some talking, she tells me to get under the sheets and get naked (since I’m always supposed to be naked in bed). She starts to rub the underside of the cock, pressing it into my stomach. It’s getting harder and I’m making little moaning sounds. “Quiet,” she says. “No sounds.”

Oh, god. I’m normally pretty vocal in these kinds of situations and suddenly finding myself having to bottle it all up was infuriating. The simple sensation of her rubbing the cock on just one side with only two fingers seemed to multiply in its intensity. After a few minutes of this I realized it might actually make me come and the tiniest little Whoville squeak leaked out of me. She immediately withdrew her hand leaving me hard and throbbing. My fun was over. Now I know the rules to that game.

Feeling pretty turned on, I rubbed my hand across her shirt and felt the hardening little nub of her nipple.

“Did you ask permission to do that?”

“Can I please touch you?”

“What do you say?”

I said our agreed-upon phrase that reinforces her dominant position in our sexual relationship and she pulled her pajama top up and assumed the now-familiar “serve me” position.

Again, it was all about her. I used my hands this time, not Pink. Her pussy was incredibly wet and the cock between my legs pulsed with the memory of sliding into it. After she came, I laid with my head on her chest and told her how badly I wanted to fuck her. She pulled down her top and pulled up her bottoms and told me I could touch myself, but not come.

As soon as I wrapped my hand around the hard cock, I knew – I knew – that this time, I could get there. But it was not to be. Not tonight, anyway. So I laid there and stroked while she rolled over and went to sleep.

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Well, that sucked

Nineteen days of orgasmless existence came to an end this morning with a pathetic squirt. But I’m getting ahead of myself…

It all started in the dark at about 4:30 when my Belle Fille woke me up asking if I was interested in sex. “Ermph?” I replied. I had made my advances the night before since it had been an even numbered day since my last orgasm and she had previously expressed an preference for non-odd numbered days. However, “nineteen” is also the title of a song Belle liked in high school, so we were going to wait until the 19th day. Yeah, super. OK. Let’s wait! I’m sorry, what was I saying about wanting her to be capricious?

<clenched teeth>Good night, sweetie.</clenched teeth>

Flash forward six and a half hours to her proposition. Seriously, now!? It’s the middle of the night. Well, let’s not look this gift-wife in the mouth.

I did my dead-level best. I’m not sure I was even awake for most of it, but I did manage to get her off by going down on her. And here, guys, I have to make a confession. Even after nineteen days, I more than half hoped she’d let me roll off and go back to sleep. Yeah, I was hard and she was ready, but this was going to be not just the first time in almost three weeks, but the very first time with steel installed through my unit. But no, she wanted me to go. The reptile in me seized the moment and told the fluffy bunny to fuck off as I groped around for the condom package in the nightstand.

According to my piercer, I need to use a condom for about 6-8 weeks. At my current rate of consumption, I’ll burn through exactly two rubbers in that time. Now, it’s been a while since I used one of these things. Shopping for them is a little different than in the old days. Instead of picking them up in a greasy gas station convenience store, I made my selection while standing in the wide and well-lit aisle of our local Target superstore while moms with toddlers pushed carts full of Christmas toys and toilet paper nearby.  Before me was a six by twenty foot cornucopia of brightly colored prophylactic boxes. Ribbed, studded, spermicidal, thin, ultra thin, and magnum – all available in quantities from three to ninety-six from three different manufacturers. I was overwhelmed. Who the hell needs dozens of condoms, anyway? These things do expire, right? Halloween’s over, so passing them out to trick-or-treaters couldn’t be it. Perhaps they were intended for fall-out shelters or the nightstands of terribly lucky and/or delusional men.

Anyway, up on the top shelf in a little black box with a sheep’s head on it was a pack of three condoms apparently made from the intestine of the aforementioned animal. The writing on the box said these all-natural contrivances were the very thinnest and allowed for the most sensation for the discriminating gentleman (who might also have a latex allergy). They were roughly three times more expensive than their non-animal-based counterparts, and I’m just shallow enough to equate price with quality, so I bought them.

As it slid wetly out of its torn little envelope there in the inky blackness of our bedroom this morning, it occurred to me that it felt entirely unlike a mass-produced marvel of modern petrochemical manufacturing. Instead, it felt like rolled up skin. Rather than stop and consider what I was about to put on myself and risk the blood in my swollen member rushing off to some quiet, out of the way capillary where it could go back to doing what the rest of my body wanted to do, I sallied forth and unrolled the cold, wet, skin-like animal byproduct onto my sex.

The sheep on the package could just have well stood for a wool sock since that’s what it felt like I had on my dick as I entered Belle. I felt warmth and pressure, but couldn’t really tell how much of me was in her at any given point. Maybe the sheep my condom had come from had unnaturally thick intestinal walls. In any event, it didn’t really matter since the curved barbell in the head of my cock slid back and forth and pulled uncomfortably on its still-healing hole. I had to withdraw, but was pleased to release my manhood from it’s sheepy sensory deprevation chamber. One might think I felt sad that the sheep’s life was thusly wasted on my unchristened condom, but one would not only be wrong but one might also be freakishly obsessed with the rights of thick-intestined farm animals.

Once the intestine was off, Belle let me masturbate. Honestly, I should have stopped and just gone to sleep, but I felt I had gone that far and, with the ghost of Wooly the Sheep hanging over the bed, I wanked my meat. Normally, I like to alternate from the base of my shaft to the head, but the area I like to rapidly stimulate is currently healing, so I could only stroke the bottom two-thirds of the cock. Eventually, I coaxed it to give up the semen. It didn’t feel good at all – it felt like a hell of a lot of work. Its volume was unremarkable which, in itself, is somewhat remarkable considering how long it had been. But no, it wasn’t fireworks and earthquake stuff. My cranium did not explode. I did not see lights. Instead, the orgasm weakly flung itself onto my stomach, barely making it over my belly button.

I felt like the guy who sat through a joke he’s already heard, but told with an overly long set up and a bungled punch-line. I’m hoping Belle isn’t too tired tonight because I’d like to call a mulligan and get my do-over.

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This morning

I awoke this morning with the carnivorous butterflies at full battle alert. My whole body seemed to vibrate with a tremulous, insistent lust for Belle. There was a moderate amount of pain coming from the end of my erection, but the immediacy of her physical presence filled my senses and caused me to momentarily subjugate the hurt. At first, she was sleeping, and I tentatively moved my hands over her body, cautious not to wake her but finding it difficult to control my urge to touch her. As she stirred from sleep, I became more bold, moving my hand beneath her bedclothes and down between her legs. Thankfully, she was receptive and pulled her top up to to reveal her breasts, in doing so wordlessly directing me to provide her the service I so badly craved. She made little effort to please me. There was a vague touching on her part, but it seemed more about her appreciating my form than an attempt to give me pleasure.

I consumed her nipples as if they were water and I a man lost in the dessert. I fought the urge, so familiar when my lust is running high, to sink my teeth into her soft flesh. My mouth found its way to her pussy and I eagerly lapped at her wet folds. Her first-thing-in-the-morning aroma was strong and powerfully affected me. My newly pierced meat strained against the still-unfamiliar steel passing though it, but the intensity of her womanhood blanketed any pain. I was solely focused on consuming all of her that I could before she inevitably fell over the cliff of orgasm.

As her climax approached, she started moaning loudly and with abandon. I found myself, for the first time, making sympathetic orgasmic moans. Soft, almost whimpering sounds came from me as I palpably felt the crest of her pleasure approach and then wash over me along with the knowledge that, sadly, my enjoyment of her body was coming to an end.

Afterward, I laid my head down on her pubic hair and inhaled her redolent essence for as long as she’d let me. I placed my hand over her pubis, cupping it over her mound. I felt the source of her power over me radiating from it. An animal-like lust welled within me and, again, I was nearly overcome with the urge to bite her. But I didn’t. I kissed her. As sweetly and as tenderly as I knew how. And I thanked her for allowing me the pleasure of giving the same to her.

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D looking for T

Belle let me fuck her tonight and, even though I was not given permission to come, it was quite the relief. It’s only been four days since my last orgasm, but it was four days locked in the CB6K during a particularly nasty menstrual cycle which left Belle not only disinterested in letting me give her any kind of physical pleasure but her very much disinclined to give me much, either. I do like denial, but I find it has to be balanced with a certain measure of teasing. Denial without teasing is just sad. Kind of like a pony without a saddle.

When I first started learning all I could about all the various ways men get denied by their women, I read a lot of femdom blogs and sites. There are many guys out there who seem to be very happy doing little else than housework for their women (while locked in chastity, of course). I mean, they get off on it. I do understand where that comes from because I’m there with them, to a point. However, for me, the service bit cannot be the only form of submission. I need her loving touch and attention, too. It builds a feedback loop where she arouses me but denies release which makes me more interested in helping with the little things which, in turn (I hope), gives her reason to arouse me again which, conversely, causes me to want to do more and more for her. Eventually, it all spirals into a cosmic orgasm and starts to build all over again.

I admit to not really understanding how all this works in my head. I want to make her happy all the time, even on those days I get to come. But, as the days tick by and I get farther and farther away from coming, the need to please her builds. I want to constantly kiss her and tell her she’s beautiful and pick up both the kids for her and start the laundry and cook the food and whatever the fuck else I think she needs because…because…well, just because. I don’t know. Are men really that simple minded? Are we such simple beasts, so easily conditioned into submission? Um, yeah, maybe. I seem to be, at least.

But only to a point. If I’m not getting attention from her in bed, I start to lose my focus and feel sad and neglected. It happened early on when she and I were apart and the affects of the orgasm denial was particularly acute. I need the semi-regular feedback from her to keep all the hormones surging in the same direction. Without it, they start to meander about and bump into one another like drivers in a Beijing traffic circle. Maybe my neediness is a phase. Maybe, with time, I’ll be like other guys who share my perversion and will be satisfied with folding the laundry and mopping the floors at her command. We’ll see.

But tonight I got to fuck. And it was awesome. Four days with little sexual contact and no opportunity to pleasure her climaxed as it has before with me on top trying like hell not to come while simultaneously giving her as much pleasurable stimulation as possible. Playing the part of the big meat fucking machine, solely focused on her pleasure, is quickly becoming my favorite way to be naked with her. When she really gets into it and seems to stop trying to give me any kind of feedback or pleasure – when it’s all about her and her approaching orgasm – that’s when I’m happiest. I really, really like being her tool. I relish the internal struggle within myself right at the moment of her climax when I feel the reptilian urge to continue fucking her only for my pleasure but knowing I cannot. That I will be left ultimately dissatisfied. Tonight, my internal lizard was left ravenously hungry as I was still sporting a pretty good hard-on long after Belle was asleep. Even now, I’m left typing this – exhausted yet unable to calm the buzzing in my head so I can sleep. The lizard will not rest.

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Crossing the Rubicon, Part 3

[This is the last part of a three-part post. You might want to read the first and second parts first.]

I chose to call this series of posts “Crossing the Rubicon” because of what happened on the morning of the last day of our weekend. As I’ve written in the past, being tied up is one of my oldest and deepest desires. I’ve never been tied up by anyone before, though it’s been part of my fantasy life and a major player in the porn I enjoy since as long as I can remember. I did bring it up to Belle early in our relationship, but her reaction caused me to put it back in the dark hole in my psyche from whence it came. She wasn’t actively opposed to the idea, but I sensed trepidation and maybe some fear. I let it drop. Now, all these years later, it was back to the surface. I had told Belle everything I wanted done to me and she had shown sympathy and a willingness to try, if not a comprehension of what motivated me.

On her trip to San Francisco, Belle had purchased some light bondage gear. Basically, some simple tethers with clips on the ends and four velcro cuffs with attached rings. Nothing too severe, but inexpensive and packaged in an accessible and non-threatening fashion. It was my understanding that we’d finally put these to use over this weekend, though the opportunity I thought most obvious had come and gone due to too much drink and hot water. Sunday morning, she indicated we’d finally take the plunge.

To me, this was synonymous to the first time I had sex. I had wanted to do this for so long and now the time had finally seemed to come. I asked if she wanted me to prepare the room, and she said I should while she made her coffee, ate her cereal, etc. Back in the bedroom, I tried to figure out the best configuration of the tethers. Our bed was king-sized with no headboard or footboard (like we have at home). I eventually attached the tethers to the legs of the bed frame, but I found by laying them out and trying different poses that I’d be stretched into an extreme spread-eagle position. I bound one ankle and one wrist to make sure it was even physically possible and the sudden reality of the moment finally struck me. I found myself incredibly nervous and self-conscious. Ironically, as I was preparing the bed in a way to maximize my physical vulnerability, I discovered a deep well of emotional vulnerability. Doubt crept into my mind. Was this going to be fun? Did she really want to do it? Maybe this was the wrong time. I tried to put those thoughts aside as I finished the preparations. I went back out to the living room and waited.

It seemed to me, as the minutes ticked by, that Belle was dragging her feet, just as I suspected she had dragged her feet with regard to bondage all along. Finally, after she had exhausted just about every delaying excuse possible, she sat down next to me on the couch by the fire. She said she wanted me to know that she was “sexed out” and not interested in further penetrative activities with me. That’s what she said, but what I heard was a serious lack of interest on her part and felt she was trying to work her way out of the event. It played directly into my doubts and fears and vulnerability. I told her maybe we shouldn’t do it since I was not interested in it if she wasn’t. There was only going to be one first time for this, I said, and if we couldn’t both be into it, I didn’t want it ruined. I was angry, scared, disappointed, and embarrassed to even be in that position. I started to cry. I was a mess.

In the past, that might have been it. I might have been impulsive and we might have fought and the entire event would have collapsed in a heap of resentment. Luckily, though, we kept talking. She told me she just didn’t want me disappointed if she didn’t come at the end of this. That she did want to do this, for me, but that she wasn’t interested in sex being a part of it. I told her who came and when was entirely under her control and, if played correctly, it was practically impossible for me to be truly disappointed. I told her that the erotic torture she had put me through the previous morning, upon being released from the CB6K, was all I was expecting with the only difference being this time I’ve be tied down. I sensed she was making this thing into a bigger deal than it needed to be. That I wanted to be tied down by her and only her and anything she did to me would be wondrous. All I wanted to do was share the experience with her, my love. That’s all.

Finally, I stopped crying. We had gotten past the road hazard and would continue the journey. She told me to go back to the room, get naked, lay on the bed, and wait. I did as she said and, while in the room alone laying nude in the middle of the big bed, felt a level of apprehension and anxious expectation unlike anything before. Involuntary shudders rippled across my body and my teeth were beginning to lightly chatter. She entered the room and I felt very naked, vulnerable, and exposed.

She started with my right wrist, then my left. I tested the restraint and found them to be light, yet quite secure. I knew I could not overcome them and the thought sent an electric wave through me. Next, she secured my right ankle, then my left. I tried to move and found my range of motion severely limited. Goosebumps broke out across my body. Finally, she placed a blindfold over my eyes and kissed me on the mouth. I was going to explode with anticipation.

I heard her move through the room. She seemed to be looking for something, but I didn’t know what. She left the room, then came back in. I heard the light switch go on and her rifling through our toy box. Then the light was switched off. I honestly had no idea what was going on or what she was looking for.

I felt something light and feathery brush against my chest. Was that a feather? Where the hell had that come from? She dragged it across my nipples, down my legs, across the cock and my balls. I instinctively moved my head as though, if I could just find the right angle, I’ve be able to see what was going on, but to no avail. Finally, I figured out that I was feeling the ends of a simple rubber flogger Belle had purchased along with the restraints. I had dismissed it as a novelty, but was happy she brought it out as it was totally unexpected and might be able to give me a mild stinging sensation.

Her first swing of the flogger did nothing to change my perception that it was a toy. It struck my chest with a light, almost tickling sensation. I found some pleasure from not being able to see it before it hit me, so the shock of the feeling was sudden and surprising. Each impact caused me to sharply intake my breath. Then, I was even more surprised to find the sting of the little flogger to be getting stronger. She started flailing on my left hip and upper thigh with rapid succession and then alternate with my right side. In fact, after a while, I felt myself actually approaching the limit to the amount of sensation I was going to be able to withstand. I writhed, moaned, growled, and barred my teeth as the pain’s intensity became almost more than I could bear. It occurred to me we had never established a safeword or any other way for me to tell her she had gone too far when, at the very moment I felt I was going to break, she’d move to another spot on my body or suddenly start gently brushing my skin with the feathery ends of the rubber strands. While all this was going on, I started to self-analyze my reaction. Was I enjoying this? Was it good for me? Oh god, yes. It was everything I had hoped it would be and more.

I felt the areas where she had struck me burn and sting and I felt the cock between my legs flop around. Interestingly, it didn’t get hard as I had expected, but it was flushed with blood and felt fat and heavy. She would occasionally concentrate the light sensation over my groin and I found myself simultaneously fearful she’d strike me there and hoping desperately that she would. She never did, but she did grab and pinch my nipples with a force I’d never felt her apply before. Did my restrained and vulnerable position give her greater strength or did it only feel it that way because I was helpless?

I honestly have no idea how long the flogging went on. She eventually grabbed the cock and started stroking it roughly. I had to ask her to be more gentle as somehow she had unknowingly crossed into bad pain. I felt the flogging portion of our session was over and that now I was expected to come, so I begged to have my hand released so I could bring myself to orgasm. At first, she declined, but I think the effort eventually got to her and she released my right hand. I was immediately stunned to feel how hard the cock in my hand was. It had been so long since I stroked it, but even so, this was bigger and harder than I had remembered it could get. My legs being spread made it harder to come, but she told me I’d have to do it the way I was. No more of me would be released. She started to twist my nipples and I finally felt the stirring of an orgasm start to build between my legs. When the orgasm finally came, I felt its sticky ropes fly across my stomach. I was panting, blind, and euphoric.

Belle released the other restraints and removed the blindfold. As she laid next to me, I felt the warmth of her skin and was surprised to find her naked. In addition, she had a light sheen of sweat over her from the exertion of the session. She snuggled in and I felt the comfortable warm afterglow of the orgasm wash over me…just as she scooped up a great glob of come and spread it across my lips. “Time for breakfast!” she said merrily. We both immediately burst out laughing as I told her through my sticky, gooey lips that the idea of eating my own come was admittedly more enticing before it came out of my body. I licked off my salty treat and felt my love for Belle Fille bursting inside me.

—

Later, we were back in the hot tub. As we climbed in, I showed Belle the welts she had raised on my skin. I was delighted, but she was taken aback. I reassured her that I loved the marks she had left and hoped to see more like them in the future. Venus and Mars, indeed.

As I sat there in the bubbling, steaming water and stared across the frozen lake, I felt a different kind of afterglow from our session. It wasn’t from the orgasm. It felt different. In fact, everything felt different. Belle had taken me across the Rubicon – the point of no return. She had popped my bondage and flogging cherries both on the same day. Thanks to her, I now knew what my fantasies really felt like. And they were better than I had hoped. It was almost half an hour later, and I realized I was still softly moaning to myself. It was as if I was purring like a happy cat laying in a sunbeam. The love of my life, my wife, my keyholder, my Belle Fille had brought me across the threshold to a new world.

And I was happy to be there with her.

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Crossing the Rubicon, Part 2

[Don’t miss what happened last time on a very special episode of Denying Thumper.]

Truth be told, most of the weekend involved laying about in front of the fire with me reading and Belle sleeping/lounging/being lazy. Much of the time I was naked, though I’d occasionally put on pajama bottoms if I got cold or for some reason felt like being partially clothed was more appropriate. I love being naked and I seldom get the opportunity to indulge myself as I did this weekend, but even so, sometimes being the only naked guy in a room can turn from feeling sensual to awkward fairly quickly. Also, going out to get firewood in the nude when it’s 18 degrees outside can be a challenge. In any event, in between naps, Belle and I also took a walk, sat in the hot tub, ate, and otherwise just hung out together. I tell you this so that you understand it wasn’t all debauchery and sex, despite evidence on this blog to the contrary. Then again, I know you’re probably not interested in the non-sexual sitting around stuff so I’ll omit it for brevity’s sake.

Later in the day, Belle and I were in the hot tub looking out over a frozen lake. (If you’ve never sat in a 102 degree hot tub when it’s so cold out the water in your hair freezes, you’ve not yet lived.) She was naked, I was naked, and, even though I had a supernova of an orgasm hours before, I started pawing her like she was a drunk bridesmaid at a Catholic wedding. Belle tells me we once had sex in this very hot tub, but I have no recollection of that event (which is odd since it’s the absolute kind of thing I’d usually remember). I really wasn’t thinking about doing it again, but I guess she was since she positioned herself such that I was able to gain entry. Honestly, it was somewhat akward. I had a hard time positioning myself so that I was able to fully penetrate her and the water wasn’t really helping with the lubrication so it eventually petered out. After we left the hot tub and were back upstairs, I guess the tub fuck was just enough to get her motor humming since we were back in the bedroom again using Pink, the little vibe who could. Orgasm this time took maybe three minutes, but was still intense and I was still more than little worried.

Later, just before dinner, we were sitting by the fire when Belle awoke from her second nap of the day (or was it the third?). I was reading Come Hither: A Common Sense Guide to Kinky Sex (a wonderful book, BTW). After a while, she asked me a question and I read to her the entry in the book related to an answer. That lead us to keep reading the book aloud and thusly we found ourselves snuggled on the couch with me reading long passages to her and occasionally stopping to discuss how it related to us. It was really very nice. I bought a bunch of books for her and I to share and we had not yet had much time to ingest them so this was just about the perfect outcome for me, someone who wanted her to learn as much as she could about me and the way I was trying to direct our relationship.

At some point, Belle started petting her cock through my pajama bottoms. She laughed and remarked that in the past it was something she’d never do and now she was doing it absentmindedly. I smiled – a lot – and kept reading. After a bit, she slid her hand down the front of my pajamas and lazily pet her pet directly. I dutifully kept reading, though I admit the words were starting to lose their meaning on me. Finally, she untied my pajamas in order to gain more maneuverability within them. At this point, I simply stood up, let them fall to the ground, sat back down, and continued reading. Sometimes, as I said, you feel odd being the only naked guy in the room but other times it seems the only logical course of action. In any event, as I continued to read chapter eleven, A View From the Top: Sexual Dominants, to her, she started slowly and lightly stroking the rapidly lengthening meat between my legs. I started to read more slowly with longish gaps appearing between words, which, as far as I could tell, were written in a different language. “Keep reading,” she’d tenderly command me, and I did. Next, she started to repeatedly rub her thumb from the underside of the cock’s head to the top and back again. My reading comprehension rapidly approached zero and my eyes started to close as I stuttered the last word over and over. “Keep reading,” I was told. I kept reading. After god knows how long of this glorious treatment, she told me to go to the kitchen and start making dinner. She took over the reading.

We read three chapters this way, back and forth while eating. I was drinking beer, she white wine. I had just two beers, while she consumed more than half a bottle. She was supremely relaxed when she finally told me we were going to go sit in the hot tub for a bit before going to our room where I was to massage her feet. Afterward, Pink would work its magic on her and we’d go to sleep. Normally this would be the recipe for a grand evening, but I admit to feeling a certain amount of disappointment. I badly wanted Belle to tie me up and we had gone through nearly the entire day – the only full day or our trip – and the straps and cuffs never came out of the toy box. If she hadn’t drank all that wine, I thought, then maybe I’d have a chance. But I could tell by the drowsy expression on her face my window of opportunity had closed.

Back in the tub, she maneuvered me between her legs and I found myself giving her a watery fuck again. This time, I had found the right position and probably could have brought at least one of us to orgasm, but she stopped me just as I was getting going in earnest and told me she wanted instead to come by the vibe. Oh god, I thought. It begins. In the past, the cock was her number one path to orgasm. Now, it had been bumped in favor of the petite pink dynamo. If the cock was in her, there was a good chance it would be allowed to erupt. If not, then I was out of luck. Luckily for my team, she was far too gone due to the drink and the hot water to be able to come. Pink had failed on only its third outing. My batting average was way, way better than .666, so I was still winning on points. However, she was snoring and I was hard. At least Pink could be turned off.

I know I originally said this would be a two-parter, but I’ve now decided it needs to be three. So…

To be continued.